Rectified
by it's just another daydream
Summary: There are some mistakes that can never be undone . . . but when things don't go according to plan the first time around, you have to take matters into your own hands. Now, almost a century later, someone's dealt a new deck of cards. Chrno x Rosette.
1. 000: Prologue

**000: Prologue**

She'd never been one for tears.

Even when the going got downright shitty on her, she never cried; beaten, stabbed, shot . . . and never had she cried. Only once did tears fall from her eyes, and it had been the worst day of her mortal life. After the final battle with what seemed like the Devil himself, she had lain dying in his arms—crying, freezing, but smiling all the while. In a moment of nostalgia, she remembered the tears within his own eyes as he begged her to hold on—to stay with him. To never abandon him._ "Please—Rosette, don't you _dare _die on me! I'm begging you not to leave me!" _

She'd been lost long before his pleas.

Although in despair, she remembered it clearly; she'd died in peace, knowing she was loved and would be missed—after all, if you could not actively love someone, wasn't the next best thing knowing that you would be missed? His love had given her courage—faith—that, one day, they'd be together again. In another life, in another time—Hell, even in another _world_—but they'd be together. She'd sworn that, the next time, she'd hold on tight and never let go, come Hell or High Water.

But now, with her forehead held up by her knees, she let loose the torrent that refused to cease; uncaring if the entire world knew that she, the renowned Exorcist, was crying—that she was nothing but a frail, human girl in the end. "Damn you!" She cried into the nest she'd created when wrapping her arms around her bent legs. "Damn you, damn you, _damn you!_"

An emotional ball—that's what she was right now. A woman scorned and all that ruckus. Subconsciously, she tried to shrink into herself, wishing she could just crawl under a rock and hide for all of eternity; oh how the Heavens must be laughing at her plight. _'Why was I born here—_now_, of all times?' _It wasn't fair at all. She'd waited so long—endured so much pain—and all to have it ripped away from her without it ever having been hers in the first place. Was Fate really so cruel—was God? Everything had seemed perfect, like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle finally coming together. She'd foolishly believed that now, after so long, she'd finally get her Happily Ever After.

But she'd been wrong. So very, _very _wrong.

No matter how many forms and lives a soul embodied, it never remembered the experience it went through previously—ever. A soul was meant to simply_ feel_, go through each life with a fresh new start without the knowledge and burden of the life it had left behind. That was how it had always been—how it was supposed to always be.

But what God had proven before, he'd proven again with her—he was like a big bully pulling the strings on helpless puppets. Not only had _she_ remembered everything from her past life, but so had _everyone else_ that had been there with her—all of them, with the exception of a few, having been placed upon the earth once again within the same lifetime as she. Their memories were fresh, but welcomed, making them far better people—and a thousand times more cautious—than they'd been before. It should have been a dream come true, for she was reunited with everyone she loved! It should have been, dammit. _It should have!_

At first, it seemed like one gigantic coincidence; Katherine Valentine was once again Head Sister at the Order of Magdalene—which had flourished and branched off all over the world—and Ewan Remington was still around . . . and _still _second in command to Sister Kate, hilariously enough. Azmaria was a Sister-in-training, her powers still blossoming as an Apostle, and Satella was around too (if the letters to the Order were anything to go by), although a great deal less hostile since, this time, her sister was still with her.

Rosette and Joshua Christopher had, once again, been orphaned at a ridiculously young age and, in turn, had grown up in an orphanage. The _Seventh Bell_ Orphanage, to be exact. On the eve of his eleventh birthday, his tumulus and chaotic past had returned in a bizarre dream—his sister, however, had not a clue.

And she wouldn't for another year or so. Even when, at the age of thirteen, young Rosette had joined the Order of Magdalene at her brother's prodding, she never had a clue—until the day she turned fourteen. Up until then, even Sister Kate had been trying to drop hints and subtle tips so that she'd remember as they all had—so that she'd rejoin the tight circle of love they'd created before. When none of them had succeeded, they'd determined that her soul had forgotten; her memories would never be awakened. She'd almost missed a target during a training session when her mind had been filled with crazy, bloody images; battles, laughter, tears, smiles, pain, happiness, death. . .

She'd been reborn.

Now with an objective, she'd searched the world over for him—the one she felt was destined to be by her side. So caught up in her personal mission, she'd forgotten to tell the others that she knew them—that she'd remembered them; they still thought her clueless.

Father Remington, however, refused to give up on her. As an Exorcist-in-training for the Militia, he'd sent the young fifteen year old Rosette to Europe—Italy, to be geographically exact—to obtain some hands-on training with an elusive, pesky demon that had been haunting a specified area of Catania; which had to be the worst place _ever_.

It was what people nowadays deemed "Third World". Garbage littered the streets profusely, and every time she'd walked down the streets she felt the leers and nasty smiles of the men she passed whilst in her trademark uniform—which had not changed in the many decades since she'd worn it last. Periodic lava flow from the nearby Mount. Etna should have warned people to _not_ build _any_ kind of city there, but someone just had not cared enough to think of that—it had been her rotten luck that, just as she'd disposed of the annoying low-level demon there, a volcanic eruption had occurred and she (along with everyone else) was forced to evacuate.

Her task completed, she should have just returned to Headquarters back in New York . . . but something made her stay a little longer. Buying a plane ticket for a later date, the young nun had discreetly ventured around neighboring towns and such, curiously exploring her surroundings whilst simultaneously exploring the small signs her instincts were screaming at her—well . . . more like flinging at her with kilos of dynamite attached to them.

And, wanting to rest after a long hard day, she'd found her answer at a cathedral.

The library, actually; after kneeling at a pew and praying for an end to her search, she'd walked upstairs to the library that contained books that even God would probably find horribly outdated. The scent of leather and paper had mixed oddly with the incense within the cathedral, but there was no reason to leave the House of God just yet—maybe she could find a good book here for Azmaria or Joshua, since the two seemed so fascinated with reading; whilst Rosette didn't mind a good book, she just never had the _time_.

"I wonder if _our_ library has such old books," she'd queried to herself, ignoring a giggle that had echoed softly within the large room. It came from a few bookshelves in front of her, so she paid it no mind, plucking a random book from the shelf and reading 'Holy Maidens Through the Age'. She'd snorted.

"You're hilarious, did you know that?" Came that soft, giggling voice again. It was eerily familiar. She rolled her blue-green eyes disdainfully. _'Christ, must _every_ girl this day in Age twitter like a moron? I swear I'll _never_ act like that over a guy.'_ Another chuckle joined the woman's, this voice husky and throaty like a lazy purr. Every thought came to an immediate halt, even her lungs pausing in mid-breath as her ears strained for even the smallest of sounds. _'What the . . . did I bump my head or something? Am I going delusional?' _Her hands stopped flipping through pages—had her ears heard right?

"Of course I am," he replied, his laugh rolling tantalizingly like velvet thunder.

The book in her hands had clattered to the floor.

Holding her breath, the blonde retrieved the fallen leather-bound source of literature and hugged it like a lifeline to her chest. There was an agonizing flutter within her, a hope blossoming much too fast for her own good—but the black fly of dread buzzed around tauntingly within her bosom, foreshadowing a future she did not want to see. She padded noiselessly across the marble floor, peering around the bookshelf tentatively. _'Curiosity killed the cat, Rosette,'_ she thought, but shook it away; she _had_ to know.

"Why _did _you bring me here? I know you're not fond of Catania," said the flaxen-haired angel. Her arms were intertwined with the escort beside her, her emerald eyes shining with love and laughter.

"There's an Opera House here that I knew you'd love," his smile was gentle as he placed an adoring kiss upon the lady's brow, returning the embrace she gave him after she made a little sound of pleasure and happiness; he looked serene and content, as if he had not a care in the world.

He was as ageless and beautiful as she remembered, his wings, horns, and tail hidden beneath the guise of a human—a grown, human _man_ this time, not an adorable boy of twelve. Though she'd never seen this form before, she knew who it was immediately; tousled violet hair brushed against his shoulders, a red bandanna hiding the three jewels she knew were there. His legs were encased in slacks of ebony that went nicely with his glimmering boots and simple white shirt . . . he looked like a _normal_, human man. His eyes were still red, but even _that_ seemed more exotic than abnormal or demonic. And he looked . . . _happy_. Peaceful—carefree.

She whimpered. ". . . Chrno . . ." The shattered pieces of her heart joined the tears that fell upon the floor. She listened masochistically as the two continued to talk, their tones soft and secretive as if they shared something no one else ever had a chance of having. _'Magdalena,'_ she thought, clutching the book tighter—she needed something to hold onto. _'I should have known she'd be here, too.'_ She choked back a sob.

"You hear that?" It was the demon himself, his ears as astute as ever.

"It sounded like someone was crying—I think it came from that bookshelf over there."

She panicked. '_They can't see me—no! He's happy—he's happy here and I'd . . .'_ Their footfalls came closer and she wiped the tears from her eyes, gripping the poor book as if it'd save her from the horrible hand Fate had dealt her. Quickly, she assessed the distance from her current position to her hotel halfway across the city; and decided that anything was better than staying here.

And so she ran.

Hours later found her here, on the cold, hard chair in an empty airport. All she'd brought was a dufflebag, and that sat beside her on the ground right now as she felt fresh tears fall down her cheeks, her stomach numb from having the book dig into the sensitive flesh for such a long time. Her habit had been stuffed into the dufflebag and the bulletproof corset that went with her uniform had joined it, for she had not had the energy to deal with the blasted contraption right now; she was neither nun nor Exorcist—she was only Rosette.

She felt the stares of those who walked by, but she ignored them, too buried within her own grief._ 'But he's happy—shouldn't I be happy _for_ him? If I truly love him, I should be thinking of his happiness and not my own . . . right?' _She hiccupped pathetically.

Was she being selfish? She'd hung on for so long to the promise of seeing him again—of being together with him again. Even before her soul had resurfaced her former life, she remembered having dreams of the dark man . . . even then, her spirit had longed for him. Was it selfish of her to be so heartbroken when he was so obviously content with his life—when he'd gotten everything he'd wanted? He had his horns back, he had his first love back, and he lived amongst the humans with them none the wiser. Perhaps he still worked with the Order? If so, he must work in the European branch then, because she'd never seen his name in any of the files back in New York.

With a mirthless smile, she realized that her prayers had been answered—her search had come to an end. She remembered once telling Azmaria before to fight for what she wanted . . . but how could she? She couldn't bear to tear him away from the arms of his beloved. It would be wrong, and she'd never forgive herself for such a thing.

So there was nothing for it then.

_"L'imbarco sarà all'uscita numero ventidue," _She heard, and sniffled, dragging a gloved hand over her stinging, sensitive eyes. "Boarding will take place at gate number twenty-two," repeated the computerized voice once more after her flight had been announced. Gritting her teeth, she grabbed her solitary bag and steeled her shoulders, a fierce, determined edge hardening her tear-reddened eyes. Her steps were strong and sure, her back stiff and straight; she'd never been one for tears—no—and she'd never been one to just crumble. Nothing would ever stop her—no matter how broken, she'd never just quit.

She'd go home to her loving brother and her friend, Azmaria. She'd go back to where she'd listen to the motherly—and incredibly stern—Sister Kate, and chat with people she knew, but never had the time to truly strengthen bonds with. She'd complete her training and become the best damned Exorcist this world had ever seen; she'd move on with her life, once and for all.

With nary a backwards glance, she boarded the plane—never once questioning her decision again.


	2. 001: Sunshine

**001: Sunshine**

The cars honked angrily.

"Slowpoke!" She catcalled over her shoulder, easily bobbing and weaving through traffic; after years of perfecting _Le Arte de Rollerblading_ she could outrun and outmaneuver anyone and –thing, whether human or not. Feeling reckless and free, she hopped onto the hood of a pretty green car, laughing when the angry words of the driver reached her ears.

"Rosette!" Huffed the younger of the two, his pale sandy hair constantly falling forward to block his vision. "Hold _on!_" His legs, though longer, were not as strong as his sister's; the bike had been a better choice for him, but he _still_ couldn't keep up with her. When she smiled impishly at him over her shoulder, he gave up trying to pedal faster, seeing as they were headed in the same direction anyway. "Would have been _nice_ if she'd waited for me, though," he grumbled to himself, sighing and riding back onto the sidewalk—the _last _thing he needed was someone else's bad karma on his soul. _'Then again, with as many people Rosette's pissed off, I'm surprised she's still alive and well.'_

A good three blocks ahead, the habit-less nun narrowly avoided yet another car, making it the third in less than fifteen minutes. _'Better not tell Sister Kate that—she'll take the car away from me again.' _With the sun brilliantly shining down upon her, she twirled a little, swinging the bags in her hands. _'I wish we had more days like this,'_ she thought, thinking of the predicted snowfall to come; it was mid-Winter, and they were lucky enough to have such beautiful weather—but who knew how long it'd last?

She noticed her brother had fallen behind. _'Calm down, Rosette—no one's going to take him away this time.' _She forcefully went on, slowing her pace only a little; she couldn't help but worry, even though boys his age were capable of taking care of themselves these days.

Had they known her true spirit was no longer dormant, they would have found her overprotectiveness a normal side-effect of the catastrophe that had happened before. Of course, she'd kept that tidbit to herself, and so Joshua often chafed at the leash Rosette seemed determined to place him on—he adored his sister and cherished every moment with her, but there were times when her mothering got out of hand and he demanded that, at the age of five-and-ten years, she let him be; in his mind, he'd remembered and she hadn't—so there was absolutely no reason for her to be such a worry-wart.

"I don't get her sometimes," muttered the young teenager. He saw her a little ways ahead slowing down—for him. He bit back a smile just as she crossed an intersection. "Females can be confusing, but _she_ takes the cake." With a laugh, he tried to pedal faster to catch up to her. "Craziest girl I'll ever—_Rosette!_ The light's _red!_"

Of course, _he_ had his moments too.

His breath caught and stuck in his chest as his sister narrowly dodged two cars coming from opposite directions. She simply swerved and turned, stopping at the adjacent street corner with a mischievous smile—knowing, confident, and infinitely cocky. She waited for him, her blue-green eyes twinkling. "What the _Hell_ were you thinking! You could've gotten hit—_killed! _Don't you ever _think_ before you do!" He knew her motto had always been 'Shoot First, Question Later', but _Christ_, she'd give him a heart attack one of these days.

She giggled, resuming a casual stroll on her rollerbladed feet—she went slower this time, allowing him to keep up on his bicycle. "Not usually—but that's why I'm the best damned Exorcist in the Order." She gave him a look. "Can't have those pesky thoughts distracting you."

_'Distracting!' _"What, you mean your _conscience?_"

"I have no conscience," she declared, smiling a bit.

"This I know," he grumbled, his heart just returning to its normal _'ba-bum . . . ba-bum'_, instead of _'babumbabumbabumbabum'_. At this rate, his silky mane of blond hair would become as pale—and significantly less shiny and healthy—as Azmaria's silver tresses. Thankfully, however, the rest of their trip went blissfully uneventful, Rosette having kept a slow, steady pace with her brother instead of throwing herself into the streets like a puck in a game of field hockey.

Once they'd reached her destination, she handed him two of the three bags, asking for the apron and matching visor within the bike's basket; with a peck on the cheek and a small wave goodbye, they parted ways, her brother going on to the convent whilst she headed towards the restaurant across the street.

This day in Age, things were different; she found that, whilst living in a convent was all well and good, there were expenses that sometimes needed to be paid—and working as an Exorcist never really paid a lot. So, seeing as she'd turn eighteen pretty soon anyway, she did what any teenager did when they needed funds and had no other option; she got a job. Donning the thigh-length apron and visor, she casually rolled into the establishment, plastering on a sunny smile when she met her coworkers who, on black-and-purple rollerblades, flew back and forth around the restaurant, taking orders and bringing food and drinks to those who already had.

Yes, Rosette Christopher was a part-time waitress.

Longhorn was a "steak and ribs" type of place in the more 'high-class' part of town; sometimes kids came here for dates since it was so high-ranked—and they served other things besides beef and pork, like fries, burgers, and chicken. It had the classic "Cowboy Saloon" layout with the "classy" feel all rolled into one, which was probably why it was so well-liked. She knew she'd been lucky to land this job; the Boss was a strict, but sweetly understanding man named Allen Thompson who understood her duty to the Order.

Understandably, every hour she missed would be docked out of her pay, but she had the luxury of being able to make it up whenever she could—he couldn't fault her if she had to run off to save the day, so they negotiated a rather reasonable deal. The great thing was that it was mandatory for waitresses to wear rollerblades, so if she had to leave on the double, it would be _so_ much easier to do so now—her bag of weapons and supplies were safely stored in the back during working hours, and if her pager rang with the numbers "911" she knew to hand her colleague, Amy, whatever orders she may have before haul-assing.

"Hey there, Rosette!" Greeted a bright-eyed youth named Rickie, his smile warm and jubilant. "I thought you'd be late today."

"Nope—right on time!" She smiled and winked, gliding easily through the kitchens to deposit her dufflebag in its usual place and switch supplies; notepad for orders, pen, her nametag, and—oddly enough—a ribbon to keep her hair back.

No one wanted _Hair a la Blonde _for their appetizer, now did they?

Quickly, she undid her trademark pigtails and gathered the whole of her hair into a haphazard, messy bun at the top of her head. On went the visor and she checked to make sure her wheels were straight—she'd had a horrible accident last time due to a misalignment—before she looked over which tables she'd be in charge of—all window seats, _nice_—and rolling off, bringing a few menus with her and a sunny smile to greet the people in a booth near the corner. "Hey there—m' name's Rosette and I'll be your waitress today. Would you like something to drink before you order?"

It was almost like déjà vu, doing the same thing day after day—repeating the same lines and plastering on the same smile. Even the staff and customers rarely changed; still that cute Med-school student with the charming smile who loved to flirt with her something awful; still that dishwasher that worked part-time with a humongous crush on her. Aside from slippery kitchen floors and the occasional wailing kid, the only fault she could find always came _outside_ of her waitressing job:

She had the world's worst exercise program.

After successfully working the entire day without a single interruption, Rosette had put away her things and dragged out her duffle bag, slinging it over her shoulder and waving goodbye to those that called out after her. She'd freed her hair from its restraints as she wheeled slowly through traffic, scratching her scalp luxuriously—she needed a trim, she noted, running her fingers through the strands. Whilst long hair was always more desirable, short hair suited her purpose; she didn't need any distractions on the field. _'Maybe I'll run by a Barber Shop on the way home . . .' _Readjusting the bag at her side, she turned a corner looking for one.

The pager screamed.

Mentally cursing the horrible timing—_'Just when I get some time to myself!'_—she rummaged in her bag for her cellular flip-phone, pulling out the charm-and-sticker decorated device with a crow of triumph; how she managed to avoid becoming roadkill was something even _God_ couldn't answer. She called up Headquarters. "Ne, Kate, pick up! _PickupPickupPickupPi_—Kate!" It was three in the morning—_something_ was up._ 'Maybe I should change my working hours . . .'_

"Rosette! Thank Goodness; where are you?"

A quick glance at her surroundings and she had her answer. "Between Second and Third Street."

"Then you're close; there's a low-level demon in your general vicinity and you're the only Operative available—_please_, Rosette, _please_ don't cause too much damage. We're still paying for last month's debacle."

"You can count on me, Sister!" She hung up on the distressed nun and quickened her pace, her rollerblades tearing up the gravel beneath her. Vaguely, she noted she was still in her apron and black slacks—but style never came in the way of a Hunt, ne? This wasn't a fashion show—she was a _nun_, for Heaven's sake! She wore a habit almost twenty-four seven, so there was no _need_ for glamour!—and so she continued forward without pause, her senses expanding and searching for whatever demonic presence had _dared_ trespass on her territory.

In her mind, she _reached_ out, invisible fingers dipping into the pool of Astral energy that permeated even the air at all times; the world was a shimmering ocean of stars and bright lights, and she forced her senses to target the black holes—the dark, dangerous entities that threatened the purity of the whole.

On impulse, she cut through the park, her instincts approving of her choice—she was swimming in a pond of fish, looking for the shark that disturbed the peace. The Lady moon hung high and full in the darkened sky, illuminating a world that had gone sharp in her eyes; colors seemed brighter, fuzzy corners and unseen obstacles illuminating themselves in her improved vision. Racing on the sometimes-cracked pavement, she almost danced on the spot when she found the black spot in her plain of gems. _'The bastard's hiding behind an apartment building. Bloody coward.' _For good measure, she pinpointed how much time she had before—

It was close.

Crossing an empty street, she reached into her bag and brought out a gun—one that felt like a limb she'd missed so much. In the eighty-something years that her soul had vacated this plain of existence, the weapon had not changed much; the only real difference was that it was a tad bit smaller and 'hideable', with the added bonus of being able to switch to automatic for dire and extreme circumstances.

Slinging the strap of the bag over her shoulder, she loaded the gun with Sacreds, simultaneously tucking a larger, more powerful gun into her pants; if it really was a low-level demon, then a few Sacreds should do the trick—if not, well . . .

That's what the Gospels were for, ne?

In almost no time at all, she felt the chilling aura of the devil nearby—creepy, hungry, and downright icky. Her nose wrinkled at the foul stench, slowly wheeling around a corner with her gun poised and ready to fire. Back against the wall, she made her approach as quiet as possible, wincing when her rollerblades caught on a rock and made a nasty _'creeeak'_ sound that belched loudly in the silence. _'Grrr,'_ she thought at her ever-loyal pair of wheels. It was times like these she wondered why she couldn't just get a car like everyone _else_ her age did. _'If I didn't love these things so much, I'd throw them away.' _With baited breath, she hoped to high Heaven the creature had not heard her—if so, then her plan for a sneak attack was out of the proverbial window.

A trashcan lid slid noisily down the alley, its journey echoing loudly in the night—funny how deserted this part of town felt. A gurgling sound made the hairs at the base of her neck stand on end, the odor becoming almost unbearable; she pulled the collar of her white tee over her nose in an attempt to stop the disgusting smell that wafted into her poor, sensitive nostrils. "Why don't these things ever _bathe?_" Wary of anymore meddlesome pebbles, she softly wheeled further down the darkened path.

Seeing as the streetlights couldn't illuminate this far into the alley, she had to rely only on her enhanced senses; a good minute or two of her cautiously venturing further and she found her target, feasting blissfully on something shaking, furry . . . and still alive.

It was massive, to say the least; how something that huge had hidden—or even _gotten_ there—without anyone's notice was an enigma. Staring at it, Rosette was reminded horribly of an overgrown worm with arms, a large, round lump of a head holding reflective black eyes and a disgusting maw of a mouth—she wanted to puke right then and there; she dropped her bag.

There was no hesitation on her part when she aimed at the creature's head and pulled the trigger, gritting her teeth as the demon roared and dropped its prey. It moved slowly, like a slug, but its many arms were massive with long, sharp claws; when they banged against an opposing wall, bits of brick flew and pelted her cheek. Thankfully, this demon was not immune to the Sacreds—a few more bullets and the beast went down with an incoherent roar, blood gurgling and oozing from its jaws; the odor intensified ten fold, even when it slowly crumbled into dust, leaving only a pile of ash as any indicator of the Exorcist's battle.

With a heavy heart, the blonde walked over to the demon's little midnight snack; a black-and-white Siberian Husky with crystal blue eyes. She felt sick. The poor thing seemed like a house pet that had gotten lost in the night, unknowingly falling into the arms of that hideous devil—it even had a collar around its neck. Upon further inspection, she read the name "B. Luved Robinson" in gold, with an address engraved in case the animal got lost.

It was twitching, its innards displayed horrifically for the world to see. Eyes closed, arm raised. She pulled the trigger, putting the dog out of its misery.

"B. Luved," she murmured as said animal joined its attacker on the ashy pile of remains. "I bet a little boy or girl named it that." She sighed, her heart twisting into a horrible knot. The long gash on her arm throbbed annoyingly, but she paid it no heed—it was nothing to cry or moan over, and she'd have it looked at as soon as she go to the Monastery. Right now, she had something else on her mind. "Sister Kate shouldn't mind me telling the kid about his dog." And so she pushed off of the wall running a hand through her elbow-length hair. Before she set off, she grabbed her bag, somehow unmarred by the previous battle.

Though she knew the city like the back of her hand, the address was pretty far; it was almost five a.m. by the time she found the large, picturesque home in a more remote, rural part of town. _'Poor dog—he was a long way from home.'_ Wiping at the dried blood on her arm, she rang the doorbell, dreading the confrontation to come. A light shone from the doorway. _'I'm surprised someone's awake.'_

"Yes?" It was a pigtailed little girl with warm, sleepy brown eyes, her head barely reaching Rosette's abdomen.

The Exorcist inhaled deeply. "Hello. I'm here to tell the Robinson family about their dog."

Those large eyes sparkled. "You found Bilee?"

_'Bilee?' _It must have been a nickname. "B. Luved?" At the girl's nod, she shook her head. "I'm sorry but . . ." The torn collar shone ominously within her hands, Rosette thought, wishing she knew how to handle this better—professionally, if not gently. "I . . . I couldn't save him."

The little girl gasped, tears forming rapidly. "No! No—_you're lying!_ Bilee can't be gone!" On a wail, the door was slammed in her face, the loud, distinct sounds of sobbing and muffled footsteps echoing through the wood. A few cries of "Laurie, who was it?" and "What's wrong dear—why are you crying?" made Rosette wince, her bangs overshadowing the odd, uncharacteristic glimmer within her blue-green orbs. She took a deep breath, trying to enjoy the soothing motion of the wind billowing through her hair freely; why was life so cruel sometimes?

Gently, she placed the collar in front of the closed door, turning and rollerblading back home.

.: CHRNO CRUSADE :.

The showers were full of activity.

She should have expected people to be awake by now—Sister Kate was strict about their hours—but it was still a little annoying when people gawked and stared; she was apart of the Militia, and she was sure Operatives always came in with wounds at _some_ point or another. She felt haggard and dirty by the time she shuffled into the steamy room, ignoring the naked bodies of her fellow Sisters as she looked for an empty shower stall to rinse off the stench of her Hunt.

"Ayah! What happened, Rosette?" At fourteen, Azmaria was almost eye-level with her, though the youth still had plenty of time to grow—unlike Rosette, who would probably never gain another inch, much to her chagrin. "You didn't come home last night—are you alright?" Long hair partially covering her nude body, she was almost the epitome of innocence. _Almost_.

"Eh," mumbled the blonde. "I'll be fine."_ 'A shower, some sleep, and another _life_ should do it for me.'_

Without a word, the Apostle laid her hand over the forgotten wound on Rosettes arm, using a tiny portion of her powers to heal the Exorcist; she smiled her thanks at the rosy-eyed girl, too tired to even formulate a coherent response for her. Many minutes went by after the blonde had located a functioning shower-head to stand under, letting the hot water warm the colder, darker hollows of her body—her soul. Her hair stuck to her back in clumps, tendrils sticking oddly all over her torso and face; she felt so . . . _exhausted_. "Azmaria," she muttered hoarsely, clearing her throat.

"Yes, Rosette?" Said the pale-haired angel, surprised that she'd broken the silence.

"Think you could cut my hair for me? I never seem to have the time to go to a Barber or anything—and I saw you trimming Joshua's hair the other day." Lifting her face to the downpour of water, she missed the faint blush that crept on the younger girl's cheeks. "I'd _really_ appreciate it if you could."

Forcing herself to _not_ blush, the Apostle shook her head. "But you look beautiful with long hair—_really_ beautiful."

Rosette smirked. "Look, if you can't, that's fine with me—you don't need to flatter me."

Azmaria protested. "No—you know I wouldn't mind doing that for you, but I honestly prefer the long hair. It . . . _fits_ you more." She wiped her own silver tresses from her face. "I'm not saying you weren't pretty with short hair," she said quickly, and the older nun laughed, having thought of that same retort—she was becoming too predictable, it seemed. "But I'm just saying—"

"It's okay," said Rosette, smiling a little. With a little effort, she reached for the soap and began scrubbing herself, relishing the feel of cleanliness after she'd washed the dirt and grime away from her flesh. _'I'm not about to get in a debate over my_ hair_, for Christ's sake.' _Azmaria handed her a bottle of shampoo and, again, Rosette smiled at her, applying the liquid thickly through her drenched mane. "Mmm." It felt good to have one's head massaged, even though she was doing it to herself—like fingers working out an ache between her shoulder blades, or a firm, relaxing rub on her lower back. She bent her head, foam and suds splattering noisily upon the tiled floors. "Why so quiet?"

Azmaria shook her head, and Rosette could barely make out the faraway look in those large eyes of hers. "I was just remembering something." She focused in on Rosette, her eyes growing softer. "A part of me still hopes that you'll remember one day."

The blonde stayed quiet, rinsing the rest of the shampoo from her hair—strawberry. Mmm. "What're you talking about, Azmaria?"

She got only a sad smile in response.

Rosette knew very well what Azmaria meant; but things were easier this way—less complicated, less emotional. She firmly believed that reincarnations were never supposed to know that they were, in fact, reincarnated; memories from their past life were kept hidden—dormant, repressed—when the soul took a new shape and form. She _knew_ this, but it still didn't change the fact that she was here, now, reliving her former existence with a few twists here and there—and with her old friends, no less. Hell, half the people in the Monastery were familiar faces, though she wasn't entirely sure if they knew that.

Had God screwed up somewhere? Lord knew it _felt _like it. It was like a play repeating the same scene over and over again; were coincidences _really_ so huge?

But, in spite of everything, she kept this to herself; let them think she was clueless and unknowing. Life was easier that way—_pain_ was easier to _bear_ that way. She could enjoy this life with a fresh, new perspective—on the right foot, so to speak. She could still enjoy the company and love of her friends without the horrible weight and sorrow from the troublesome, daunting past. Make way for new memories and better beginnings. How _else_ was she supposed to live on? Her Happily Ever After had been shattered.

At least _this_ way, he could at least have _his_—and not worry about a thing.


	3. 002: Only in a Dream

**002: Only in a Dream**

". . . Ch-Chrno . . . ?"

Her sleep-slurred voice seemed impossibly loud, even though it was almost high noon. Her jaws parted monstrously in a huge yawn, drowsy tears blurring her vision for a few precious moments—distorting the image before her.

"W-what? Did you just say—"

"_Oh no_," she mumbled, mentally screaming at herself for that little slip. The cover-up was a quick and effective one, but her heart thudded painfully, her dream still fresh in her mind; soft lips and lingering touches—silky hair and sleep-scented hollows. Clenching her eyes shut, she blinked a few times to clear the visage of the person who had so annoyingly awoken her. "I dun wunna wake up, Josh'a." His blue eyes had caught the glare from the sunlight streaming in through her window, turning them a brilliant, bloody crimson—he really _had_ to stop waking her up this way. "S'eepy . . ."

The blond looked exasperated. "Apparently." He peered down at her curiously as she rolled over, pulling the thick covers over her head with grumbled expletives beneath her breath. "It's past noon already, Rosie—you missed breakfast _and_ lunch. _And _you'll miss work!" It was her day off and he damn well knew it.

"Your point?" She was trying her best to ignore her sibling, nuzzling cattishly into her plushy, comfy pillow. She didn't care if her rear stood high in the air—it was her _brother_, for the love of God—and she didn't care that the sun was casting her room aglow. _'Damn the sun and damn them all—I'm _tired!_'_ She made a small mewl of protest, awkwardly curling into herself in an odd attempt to keep him from bursting her little bubble of sleepy euphoria.

"Mou—get _up_," He sounded sly. "Or else I'll tell everyone you're mumbling guys' names in your sleep."

She growled. "Did _not_." _'Leave me alone, Joshua—please. Don't tease me right now—not about this.'_ Wordlessly, she curled into a ball atop her bed, huddling and protecting herself from some unnamable fear. "G' 'way." His blackmail wouldn't work—especially not now. "Jus' lemme s'eep." Mumbling into the pillow, she half-expected the younger teen to continue his verbal assault—to coax and force her into a phase she didn't want to delve into yet; the mattress dipped a bit, accommodating the boy's weight easily. Bringing her head up from the pillow, she turned and stared at her brother, who was tossing the covers over his own body. "Josh'a?" Her voice was a whisper, still weak and hazy.

Clad in only some long khaki shorts and white shirt, he snuggled up against her, his socked feet rubbing against her bare legs a little. "What's wrong, Rosie?" His voice was softer than before, concern evident instead of the annoyance from earlier. When she gently wrapped her arms around him, he took it as an invitation to snuggle further—and he did, sighing a little.

"Nothin's wrong, Josh'a." His head of blond hair tickled her nose, but she enjoyed the sensation of holding her beloved little brother against her. She felt less alone this way. "Mmm. Let's go t' s'eep."

"But you never came home last night—and you've been acting funny lately. You scare me when you act all secretive, Rosie." She had the feeling he was using the baby name on purpose. He sounded relaxed enough, but it'd take a little while before the boy would sleep in earnest; it seemed he was attempting to placate his not-a-morning-person sister—and it was working . . . to some extent. In response to his accusation of her "acting funny", she mumbled some indecipherable reply and nuzzled his hair, her eyes firmly shut—her breath came at a slow, steady rhythm. "Oi—you're avoiding the question."

"Shu' up."

Realizing he'd get no further with his sister this way, young Joshua gave up the interrogation, settling just to lay against her warmth; she was soft and yet unyielding—an anchor. Something to hold onto. Inhaling deeply, he sighed again; she smelt of sleepy mornings and fragrant shampoo, the entire mattress and covers saturated with the scent. All together, it was a cozy, homey feel, being wrapped in his sister's arms. He smiled faintly.

_'I _know _she said his name—I'm not deaf.' _Eyes half-closed he contemplated his enigma of a sister—and his own life.He'd be sixteen soon—_'Oh _yeah!_'_—but he couldn't seem to get rid of his subconscious fear that his sister would be forever lost to him once again. It kept him up at night sometimes—robbed him of peace.

At times, he felt like a child, and yet he was powerless to stop it. There had been a time when his entire family—his world—had been taken from him, and he didn't think he could survive that again. Long ago, he'd accepted that he was not meant to feel the warmth of a parent's love—though the loss still pained him—but the love of his sister had been there, even during his madness. Her guidance, her knowledge—her warmth and love; she was the mother and father he never had, whilst still being the best friend he could ever ask for. Other kids had had their dolls and imaginary friends—he'd had Rosette.

Thoughts of the young blonde suddenly steered in another direction, completely different from the love of a brother—he thought of Azmaria and, before her, Fiore. _'Hoo boy.'_He did his best to ignore those feelings and rampant ideas, his cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of red. _'It's all in the past but . . .' _There was so much left undone—so many things left unsaid; things that, in this life, had been so dramatically different in the one before. So much had changed—and yet still, so much had remained the same.

_'How could she _not_ remember?'_ Tilting his head back a bit, he peered into her closed eyelids, as if trying to read some kind of secret message there. Her face was_ exactly_ the same as he remembered it—even that spherical, tiny black birthmark above her left eyebrow was the same—not a single thing different; same voice, same eyes, same hairstyle (albeit, she had her hair longer now). How could it all just be coincidence? It was just impossible; something had had to have gone _completely _and _horrendously_ wrong for the Lord to have placed them, once again, upon this Earth thus—to give them this second chance to make things aright. A new beginning to an old tale.

There was just_ no way_ someone "up there" would have forgotten something as significant as her memories to her former existence.

. . . And yet . . .

There were times when her eyes spoke of a haunted, tortured secret—a troubled past and forbidden mysteries—and it was those, few—oh-so-rare—moments that he believed the Rosette Christopher from old had arisen. That she could once again share in the pain and tears—the joy of being reunited and the happiness of life—that had once threatened to break them. That she could appreciate this new, beautiful life and rectify all of the wrongs that had occurred before. Those moments, however, faded quickly . . . his hopes wavering but never crumbling. He refused to ever give up the belief that her soul—her spirit—would reemerge in its brilliant radiance as it once had.

_'Maybe Father Remington is right,_' thought the cerulean-eyed young man, burrowing deeper within the haven of his sister's embrace once more. Above him, he heard her mutter some kind of response to his movement, but otherwise remained still, too deep in slumber to be affected by any kind of outside interference. _'I hope everything works out for the best in the end.'_

.: CHRNO CRUSADE :.

Was it normal to enjoy a nightmare?

In actuality, it wasn't so much a nightmare, as more of a random visualization of memories floating around in her subconscious, brought together by a paper-thin thread. They didn't scare her—they didn't even put her on edge; she _knew_ she was in a nightmare, and _knew _exactly what was going on. What was there to fear if there was nothing unknown about her own mind? Ebony and bloody-red skies—foreboding darkness crinkling at the edges of sanity.

"Rosette."

Something unnamable—unfathomable—gripped her heart in a tight, vise-grip, squeezing painfully. Tears sprang to her eyes immediately, although none touched the pale canvas of her cheek; her hands, which had hung limply by her sides, curled into fists, trying to contain the tsunami of emotions that threatened her very sanity. _'Damn nightmares.'_ It felt as if a dam were threatening to break loose and consume her—tearing down every defense she'd worked so hard to build. Uproot every tendril of tranquility that had taken so long to grow and achieve. A lump formed in her throat, restricting both her voice and oxygen.

"Rosette."

Almost fearful, she turned to meet brilliant, glowing crimson eyes, long violet hair shining darkly around his young and impossibly knowing face. The red bandanna hung low on his brow, his pointed ears covered by his softly billowing mane; he was just like she remembered . . . the first time she'd ever met him so long ago, all buckles and threadbare fabric. "Rosette," he murmured, his voice soft and deceptively adolescent. "Where have you gone; why do you run from me?"

"Chrno," she choked. There was hurt in those wide, expressive eyes; it reminded her that this was a dream, _not_ reality. When he'd been freed from Magdalena's grave, his eyes had always been guarded and closed—dark and almost unseeing. More black than red.

"Why do you run?" He looked so imploring . . . and yet, so betrayed.

"I'm not," she managed, forcing her voice to work. "I'm _not_ running."

He shook his head, lowering his eyes to the ground briefly before making contact with her own once more, tendrils of his soft hair flowing gently around him. "A lie—you lie to me as you lie to yourself." His brows furrowed in an evident anger. "You've been running from me—you would not feel so guilty were it not so." She hiccupped and he looked away, his bangs overshadowing his eyes. Light from the black-and-red moon overhead barely illuminated the lines around his mouth—a mouth that had once smiled with carefree abandon. In spite of his 'small' form, he seemed impossibly old. "You have changed so much—and have yet stayed the same." It was growing cold. She shivered. "I have missed you."

She barely withheld another hiccup; his voice had grown so quiet, as if lamenting to himself of his own, inner pain. There was so much she wanted to say, but . . . "You're happy—I could never take that away from you."

His face turned sharply towards her own, his eyes hard and disbelieving. "I _was_ happy." Unforgiving lips formed a straight, stern line. "With _you_."

She wanted so badly to believe in those words—but she couldn't let herself ignore the truth in favor of a fanciful dream. "No—it's not my turn." She felt a tear slide down her cheek, bottom lip trembling. "You've found her, and I could never take something like that away from you. I've had my time with you—and it meant so much to me, Chrno." Already, she could feel the fuzzy edges of her landscape receding into a hungry, never-ending abyss. Funny how real it felt—but in the end, it'd be naught but a nightmare. A dream. "I love you, Chrno. I always will." His face was darkening. "I'd rather have you happy than anything else in the world."

There was a pain there she never saw before; a raw, soul-wrenching anguish. With nary a word, he turned and walked away from her, willingly giving himself into the darkness that overwhelmed her. She knew this feeling—she was waking up again. Some part of her wanted to stay forever—to call him back, if only to talk and see his face again—but the pull was too sharp.

She woke up in tears, clenching a pillow tightly to her chest.

"Nee-san?" Her foggy brain registered the sound of her brother's softly-spoken Japanese; he'd always been rather adept at the language, as their father had been a half-breed—an American-Japanese mix. Before his passing, he'd given his children an alternative to their mother tongue—English. Joshua sometimes slipped into his father's native language on occasion. This was one of those times. "Daijoubu, nee-san?"

"Ne, I'm fine." Thankfully, no _visible_ tears had followed her into consciousness. Sitting up, she stretched, raising her arms high above her head and yawning. "Mmm. Good sleep," she muttered, scratching her belly through her nightgown and making a weird smacking movement with her lips. Her hair was tousled and her skin pale—but she looked fine otherwise.

"You sure? You looked like you were having a bad dream." His concerned face loomed in front of hers.

"Meh," she replied, yawning again. "I liked my dreams." _'He's getting tall,'_ she thought to herself, giving him a reassuring smile. He was already a full head taller than she—but she'd always been short, so just about _anyone_ seemed tall, much to her own chagrin. She waved off his disbelieving look, sliding languidly off of the bed and grabbing her towel and soap from atop her dresser. "What time is it?" She asked over her shoulder, scratching her scalp absently as she scowled. Meh; morning breath—best bring the toothbrush and –paste along as well.

"Eight o'clock," he replied, studying her with a piercing look. "At _night_, Rosette. You overslept again—it's just a good thing there weren't any demons to kill today, or else Sister Kate would've had your head, you know."

"Not true," she shot back. "She would've run me over with a _bus_ before she'd let me sleep in during a mission."

This earned a hearty laugh from her sibling. In a fit of chuckles and giggles, he collapsed onto the vacant mattress, tears of laughter forming at the edges of his eyes. _'It wasn't _that_ funny,'_ she thought, raising an eyebrow as her brother continued to cackle almost insanely. He'd always been one to laugh easily but . . . Meh. Shrugging, she rolled her eyes and padded to the bathrooms, where a few other girls were also showering before their evening prayer—and later, bed.

"Rosette! You're finally awake—I was a little worried."

Sliding into the shower stall, she looked over to see Azmaria in one not too far from her own, rinsing some frothy lather from her long hair. "Hey there—I didn't see you when I came in," she answered, and promptly squealed in agony when a few soapsuds plopped in her eyeball. "_Eeee!_"

Azmaria couldn't help but giggle at Rosette's plight. "Are you feeling better?"

"Not right _now_, I'm not!"

Azmaria giggled again, opening her mouth to tell Rosette to simply flush out her eyes with water—that's what _she_ always did—but never got the chance to; a haggard-looking nun burst through the door, startling both girls momentarily—who_ knew_ when the Elder would pop up? Azmaria recognized the Sister after a few minutes—Rosette still couldn't see, bumping around blindly within her shower-stall. Who knew cleansing could be so painful?

"Sister Claire?"

"Good evening, Azmaria," greeted the brown-eyed young woman, gasping some air. "Rosette, Sister Kate wants to see you immediately—it's _very_ important." She put a harsh emphasis on 'very', her soft voice unusually stern. "I think it might be a high-ranking demon," she added conspirationally, managing to somehow look awed and concerned at the same time.

"Dammit, I can't even _see _right now!" This being said, she slipped and landed painfully on her tailbone, screaming the whole way down.

After much fussing—and help from both Azmaria and Claire—Rosette finally managed to take a thorough, albeit quick, shower and hurried from the bathing room with a towel around her waist. Her quarters were deserted—thank _God_—and so she didn't have to worry about showing Joshua something that would scar him for life. Dressing was always a messy, tangled ordeal; she tripped whilst sliding on her thigh-high white stockings and the habit itself was a pain in the ass. She didn't even have time to tie up half of her hair in her trademark pigtails, having to rush and just gather the mass of golden tresses messily before jamming on her headcover. _'Gloves, habit, cross—check! Stockings, boot—damn!' _

She jumped into her boots, cursing angrily beneath her breath. _'It_ figures _that I'd get an assignment on my day off. Grr.'_ She ran down the corridors, dodging and evading passing Sisters—and a few Brothers—along the way. Unfortunately, she toppled over a pale of water that had been used to clean the floors and wailed; Sister Kate would not be happy about that.

When she finally made it to the Head Sister's office, only one thing came to mind:

That door was evil.

Standing before the wooden barrier between the "Old Hag" and herself, she could do nothing but glare ineffectively at the damned thing, alternatively loving and hating it for protecting and keeping her from the nightmare to come. _'I didn't destroy_ anything _this time!'_ She thought, but knew that nothing good _ever_ came from such an urgent summons. _'Good thing I had a good, long nap—knowing _her_, I probably won't get another for a week or two.'_ She sighed, wondering if maybe she could sneak off.

She straightened her habit, tugging absently at a stray tendril of hair; it was still a bit damp and wavy from the shower, the cold biting at her neck and causing her to shiver. _'I hate emergency missions.' _Not that they weren't almost all emergencies, but the ones that called her out of a shower usually pissed her off.

And left her sore for days.

Taking a deep breath, she slowly pushed open the door, sealing her fate. "Sister Kate?"

A look of peace flittered across the Headmistress' eyes before settling for a stern, authoritive look that matched her aura perfectly. She shuffled a few sheets of paper around absently, motioning for the nun to sit. "Come in, Sister Rosette." After some more rummaging, Sister Kate seemed to find what she'd been looking for, bringing out a rather stuffed manila folder with a photograph peeking out of one side; Rosette took this opportunity to greet Father Remington warmly, who positively beamed at her through the reflection on the window.

"Before I debrief you," began Sister Kate. "Let me congratulate you on_ not_ destroying half of New York during your last mission." Out of the corner of her eye, Rosette saw Father Remington struggle to withhold a chuckle; she blushed, embarrassed.

"I was too tired," she grumbled.

"Then perhaps I should wait till _after_ you're finished working to assign you missions?" She raised a regal brow. "While it's something to think about, we have more important matters to discuss." She gave Rosette the folder, who gingerly opened it in fear that something might fall out. "We've received a rather disturbing report from the German branch—the photograph there is of Illyssa Keppler; the daughter of a very wealthy businessman in Berlin."

On the shiny piece of Kodak™ paper, was a girl that seemed no older than eight or nine. Long black hair was neatly plaited on either side of her head, grey eyes dull and lifeless. She was eerily fair. Staring at the picture a little longer, Rosette waited for Sister Kate to continue. "What's the mission got to do with her?" The young nun wondered.

"She murdered her entire family."

Shocked, Rosette turned wide eyes to the picture once more. _'This little girl . . . a_ murderer_!'_"What . . . ?" It seemed so . . . _impossible_. ". . . How?" She was very much disturbed right now, a frown marring her brow.

"Her father was a Satanist," replied Kate, steadying the nun with a cool stare. "From what we've gathered, he was trying to eliminate any and all competition by way of a demon—and a witch he'd hired to summon it; you'll find all of their pictures in there later if you're curious." Rosette closed the folder, placing it on the wooden desk—she felt a little sick. Sister Kate continued. "The witch, however, made a mistake; her greed and blackened soul summoned a much more dangerous creature instead of the low-level demon she had been assigned to call forth. The devil devoured the witch, possessed the daughter, and drove her to insanity."

". . . Is the little girl still alive?"

Sister Kate nodded. "Her whereabouts are unknown, however."

"So I gotta find this girl—Illyssa—and exorcise the demon?" She was a bit surprised at the simplicity of the mission, no matter how disturbing it may have been; if that was the case, why couldn't the German branch handle it themselves? She wasn't the _only_ Exorcist around. Was there something Sister Kate wasn't telling her? It wasn't everyday an Exorcist from the New York was transported halfway across the world to Bubblefuck Land, Germany. It wasn't that she minded . . . but something felt _wrong_ about it.

Very, _very_ wrong.


	4. 003: Airlines

**003: Airlines**

She huffed, staring out of the window idly. _'I knew something was up.' _

High in the air, the buildings and streets looked like little pieces in a game, waiting for a child to come around and knock it all down. The golden-red glow of the setting sun made everything glimmer and glisten like gems.

She huffed again.

As she had suspected, the mission was not so clear-cut; the devil involved was indeed an Overlord of some sort, having brought along some of his demonic friends to terrorize this realm. So far, the problem had not spread farther than Berlin and one or two of its neighboring cities, but at the rate demonic activity kept increasing, it wouldn't be long before the disaster spread all across Europe . . . and even further still. Several cases of possession had been taken care of by the German branch of the Magdalene Order, but it was clearly not enough—they needed help and reinforcements; Rosette had not been the only one called.

The matter, however, did not end there; a multitude of Exorcists had been temporarily reassigned to Germany to contain the problem, and the Order had decided that strength in numbers would go much father than mere individuals going their own separate ways. Rosette, having grown used to working on her own, was to now be assigned a team—one that would await her arrival once her plane landed.

Needless to say, the young blonde was anything _but_ thrilled.

"I can do just fine by myself," she grumbled to herself, picking at the odd lumps of meat the stewardess had given her. Was it edible? She poked at it with the spork, making a face at it. _'I kinda wish Joshua had come along—I'll be horribly bored.'_ Deciding that her health was more important than her hunger, she left the gooey mass alone, opting for the bag of peanuts instead. _'I wonder if I can get a hot dog while I'm over there—maybe they haven't changed since the nineteen-twenties.'_ The way she'd remembered Satella describing a 'wurst' made her wish for one herself; perhaps now, free from any sort of apocalyptic demons—well . . . any_ immediately threatening_ apocalyptic demons—she could try one.

Quickly finishing the measly bag of peanuts, she drank her carton-beverage and slipped on her fits-inside-the-ear earphones, raising the volume on her iPod as high as the—very expensive—thing could go. She was eclectic, being one who would try just about anything once, so random songs beat harshly against her eardrums, causing several of the more elderly of passengers to give her aggravated, vehement glances of disdain; damned kids these days.

Bobbing her head to the melodic voice of some randomly chosen singer, she stared out at the window once more, her blue-green eyes not exactly focusing on the clouds. There were flashes of memories in her mind, beating against the shields as if they wanted the world to acknowledge they were there—for _her_ to acknowledge they were there. They were like video clips; mixed and jumbled pieces of a whole that, although made no sense and were in no kind of chronological order, came together as one to create a web of truth—of a time and place she wasn't supposed to remember. There were times when the sense of déjà vu was so overwhelming, she'd need a few minutes to realize that she was in the year two-thousand and five—not _nineteen twenty_-five.

_His anger had known no bounds._

_"How dare you harm my precious contractor!__ She's not moving!"_

_Half-conscious, she had lain there, the wind having been knocked completely from her lungs; after a misadventure with a demon and losing her new toy—a gun with the stolen prototype Spirit in its chamber, courtesy of Chrno's quick hands—another devil had trespassed upon Convent grounds, causing a mini-war between the evil creature—who had devoured the demonic essence within the Spirit—and every single fighting hand within the church. Chrno, who had used the demon's broken horn as a lure, was slowly distracting the enemy whilst the Convent Army unleashed hails of Sacreds upon it . . . but Rosette had tried to take on the centipede-like monster on her own, and had been tailwhipped clear across the field._

_Groaning, she rolled onto her back, gasping fitfully in an attempt to find breath; her best friend was emitting dark, demonic energy in colossal waves, sending shivers of fear down her spine. His eyes glowed a phosphorescent red, gleaming with the instinct to kill—to destroy the being that dared harmed the one that sustained his very existence._

_He was howling in agony—anguish. He was angry. Hurt. _

_Scared._

_For her._

_Her back and abdomen throbbed—she'd have bruises in the morning for sure—but she didn't care, wincing as she used her hands and arms to sit up a little. The watch against her chest cackled and sparked, sending tendrils of white-hot heat through her skin. "Chrno. . ." she whispered, hating to see her friend and partner like this; in spite of who he was, he had a kind, gentle nature. He was good and calm and so much better than half of the humans she encountered on an everyday basis. He cared for life—he gave a damn._

_When she was weak or troubled, he was her shoulder to lean on—when she was angry, he let her vent without a word, knowing she meant nothing by her insults. He accepted her faults with a smile—he was honest and loveable. Her best friend. Watching him now, doubled over in his mindless grief, broke her heart. She couldn't bear to see him this way; the shadow of his true form echoed behind him, hinting at a truth only few were meant to know. With a small grunt, she propelled herself forward, tackling his smaller body in mid-roar. "Come back, Chrno!" She was desperate. "Daijoubu! I'm really okay!" Clenching her eyes shut, she braced for impact, praying that he'd come back to her—regain his sanity._ 'As long as he's safe.'

_They landed in an inglorious pile of purple hair and tangled limbs; without a second's hesitation, she sat up and fired at the accursed devil, bringing and end to this escapade. When the monster evaporated into nothingness, she barely registered her victory—a small whimper caught her attention, and she glanced down only to see the twelve-year-old form of her partner nuzzling her chest, his small hands clutching at her in a subconscious attempt of reassurance._

_That she was okay._

_Alive—and safe._

_Had it been the Elder—or anyone else, for that matter—she would have swatted and pushed them away, calling them ecchi and perverted; she had neither the heart nor inclination to do so with Chrno, holding him closer and tighter instead. "Chrno."_

_"Rosette, I'm sorry, I. . ." The little demon didn't seem capable of completing a sentence, trying to convey his happiness over her safety in actions instead of words. Smiling softly, she buried her nose within his sweet-scented head of hair, uncaring of the light rainfall that drenched her nun's habit. All that mattered now was Chrno. "I thought he had . . . I got so angry and . . ." Pulling back a little, his crimson eyes gazed into hers, worried and relived at the same time. "Daijoubu? Honestly?"_

_"Ne, Chrno—I'm fine. Really." She smiled. "C'mon; let's go get some food. I'm starving!"_

". . . speaking. Preparing to enter German airspace; please be sure to fasten all seatbelts. Make sure all cellphones and electronical devices are off when. . ."

Blinking rapidly, the young blonde snapped out of whatever reverie she'd accidentally fallen in, barely managing to heed the Captain's words over the howling noises coming from her earphones. "How long was I out for?" She wondered to herself, yawning a little. With a mental groan, she forced herself awake, taking the mini-speakers from her ears and turning off her 'electronical device'. At some point, a stewardess came by to remind her of the seatbelt policy when landing, and Rosette tiredly complied, clipping on the uncomfortable thing. _'Well, at least this flight's almost over; I was about to go nuts for a minute there.'_ Sitting still had never been her forte to begin with—even though she'd been somewhat lost in 'dreamland', having nothing to do could still slowly eat away at sanity.

It felt like an eternity before the plane landed; she kept tugging at the hem of her plain white tee, oddly preferring the china-cut nun's habit over the shorts and shirt she'd been told to wear for the sake of 'blending in'—with the habit, she had a bulletproof corset and enough space for as many firearms as necessary.

With this, she felt so . . . _naked_.

Standing, the young Sister grabbed her dufflebag from the top compartment and tried her best not to lose her calm; Sister Kate would not like to hear about Rosette destroying an entire plane _just_ because she was impatient. Suddenly remembering, she took out a blue cap with a moderate-sized crucifix blazed in gold on the front—apparently, this was how her 'team' would recognize her—and an umbrella—it rained habitually in Germany, or so she'd been told; whether Summer or Winter was irrelevant.

_'I wish Satella was here,'_ she found herself thinking on a whim, moving at a pace that would rival a snail; damn slowpokes. _'Then, at least, I'd have a familiar face—and someone who knew the place.'_ Unbidden, the image of another came to mind, but she shook it away.

_'No—I _can't_ think of him right now; I have a job to do.' _Her steps, however, were slower than usual, her impatience replaced with a sense of emptiness; no one walked patiently by her side—no one laid a comforting hand on her arm, telling her to calm down and just _wait_ for a few more minutes. That she'll get there. "No rush," he'd say with that understanding smile, instantly quelling the fiery teenage temper that dwelled within the nun. "You know Sister Kate won't be happy if you blow anything up." He'd grin boyishly at her glare, and she would swat at him, smiling inside. _God_, how she missed those times—they seemed like only yesterday when, in fact, it had been _decades_ ago. She sighed.

"Hey! Move it, lady!"

Almost falling, she moved forward, throwing some derogative remark over her shoulder at the nameless, faceless man. Pulling her cap down lower, she scanned the crowd, immediately feeling smothered when the multitude of people practically closed in on her; there were so many people here, waiting for someone who had gotten off of the plane she'd just disembarked from. Would her 'team' find her?

No one approached her, and so she walked onwards a little, figuring she'd find a more secluded area to find the people she'd been assigned to. If not, hey; she'd go to baggage claim and phone Sister Kate—surely the Head Sister would know what to do. With this in mind, the young blonde momentarily took off her cap, scratching at her scalp idly—headdresses were one thing; hats were something else _entirely_—although it was more out of habit than need. _'I wonder what kind of food German Airports have,'_ she thought, scanning some of the signs written in German—she groaned; she didn't _know_ German. Aside from a few words, she was clueless. _'Shit.' _Not a very holy thought but _dammit_, this was frustrating. _'I_ really_ wish Satella was here right now, so I could at_ least_ get a damn wurst or something.'_

There was some lint on her cap. Picking at it, the young blonde looked around, taking in her surroundings—was her group even _here_? Maybe they were at baggage claim, or even out front, waiting in a car. What had Sister Kate said? She'd forgotten—damn! Mumbling angrily, she raised the cap to her head again, adjusting it so that it sat more comfortably atop her cranium.

A flash of violet caught her eye and she gasped, her head jerking in the direction of the source; a little girl's lollipop. _'Holy Mother of God,'_ she swore mentally, panting. Within her chest, her heartbeat was accelerating every second, as if she'd just ran a marathon. _'For a second, I thought . . .'_ She didn't want to continue that thought, raising a hand to where her heart lay—it still wasn't slowing down. _'God, am I gonna be jumping at shadows this _whole_ mission?' _She had to be professional, and getting scared over stupid whimsical fantasies and illusions would just simply _not_ do . . . but just for good measure, she scanned the thinning crowd again, eyes cautious and wide.

And froze.

.: CHRNO CRUSADE :.

He was edgy.

_'Something's not right,'_ he thought, stretching a little. His muscles were clenched tight, as if anticipating some sort of horrible shock—or a battle of some sort. _'That can't be right though,'_ he mused, yawning a little. _'I sense only humans for miles around—with a few exceptions. . .'_ Surely, a Satanist or Witch would not use Magick in such a place as this—it would be suicide. _'Then why do I suddenly want to rip someone's head off?'_ Perhaps a good venting session would help? He'd needed a lot of those lately—for him, anger was _not_ a good thing; people got hurt and cities were leveled in a single bout of temper.

No, it was best he kept his anger bottled inside, lest he'd have another massacre on his hands.

_'I'm probably just nervous,'_ he reasoned internally, scanning the hordes of people that passed him by. He'd always been a patient creature—even when he wanted to scream and rip off his own flesh, he was patient—but this was grating on his nerves; granted, said nerves had been fried for _some_ time now, but this added stress did not help his demeanor at all. _'I still don't get why they'd think_ I_ would need a partner.'_ It may have seemed cocky, but, in actuality, it was very much truth—he was probably the _last_ person that needed a partner in the Order. The Witch he didn't mind—she was an old, _old_ friend, so why would he?—and occasionally, he didn't mind the older sister (Florette, was it?), though he couldn't deny a tiny grudge from _before_, but _another_?

For a fact, he knew it wasn't the Apostle—thanks to the Witch's correspondence with the reincarnated Agent of God—so he could only assume it'd be someone from the Militia. A human. He, of all people, would never begrudge a human their due, but honestly—why would _he_ need yet _another_ partner?

"Something troubling you?"

"_Ne_; I'm just tired, is all," he answered.

A playful smile curled her lips. "I could help you wake up."

Even though he took the statement in jest, he felt his cheeks flare a bloody vermillion. "It's a bit public here, don'tcha think?" _'Some things will never change.'_

"That's the best part about it." She leaned over, revealing so much more of her . . . _ahem_ . . . assets. She was beautiful, there was no doubt; long red hair, large crimson eyes, and a to-die-for complexion. She was tall with ample curves and long, long legs—she was what every warm-blooded man would want. Many thought him nuts—or just downright _gay_—for not taking her up on her obvious advances, but what 'they'—as in, just about everyone in the damn Order that knew them—didn't seem to get, was that a) She was his friend—and a very _good_ one, at that—b) She was playful by nature, and c) . . . Well . . .

When it came to love, he had the worst of luck.

Sure his blush was still as rampant as ever, he chuckled nervously. "N-ne, I-I think I'll pass."

She laughed heartily, her eyes twinkling. In this form, he was easily taller than she, and infinitely more intimidating . . . or, so he'd assumed, but it seemed he wasn't as scary in his human guise as he'd thought he'd be; _meh_—he'd grown rather fond of this adult form, too. _'Doesn't help much when I still act like a kid sometimes, though,'_ he thought to himself, his eyes scanning his surroundings by habit.

Listening closely to the computerized female voice, he realized that the flight they'd been waiting for had just landed. His partner had, apparently, heard it too. "Finally," she muttered in exasperation. "My legs were falling asleep from sitting down so long." Standing, she stretched her legs and arms, her actions earning the stares of a few men; he, however, was used to the attention she brought, and ignored it, deciding to stand himself. Not too far off, he noted, stood Steiner—the Lady's ever-faithful servant and shadow. _'Funny how the servant followed its Master, even to the next life.'_ It spoke volumes of the bond they shared, for their souls to have remained together.

It was yet another stab at his heart.

Wincing, he shook away the memories, straightening his spine; they'd do him no good right now. He had a job to do—people to protect. He couldn't let his own regrets and sorrow interfere with that.

He mimicked the Hexen der Juwel and stretched, looking around for the human he'd been told to look out for. _'A _blue _cap, was it? Blue or red, I think—with a cross.'_ He smirked. _'Can't be too many of those around.'_ He kept looking, but found no one matching that description. _Now_ he was getting impatient. Trailed by the Witch, he made his way through the heavy throng of people, hoping to catch sight of something he might have missed; after a little while, he found the hat he was looking for, laying innocently atop a white table, a sleeping blonde beside it. She _had_ to be the one—if not, he'd phone the Order.

With this plan in mind, he was off.

.: CHRNO CRUSADE :.

Someone up there had a _very_ sick sense of humor.

She felt like her jaw had slammed full-speed onto the hard, marble floor. _'I knew I had a bad feeling about this—I _knew _it!'_ She clutched at her shirt, breathing heavily. _'Oh sweet Jesus.'_ She never knew an emotion could hurt so much; some invisible foe had stabbed her, twisting the dagger mercilessly within her heart—she winced, grinding her teeth together. _'He . . .'_ A sudden case of cottonmouth had her wishing for some water. _'. . . He hasn't changed at all.'_

In the two years since she'd seen him last—that horrible, fateful day in the Cathedral behind a bookshelf—his human guise had not changed. He looked ethereally handsome in this adult form of his, tousled spiky tresses barely reaching his shoulders. Tanned skin fairly glowed amidst the sea of pale-faced phantoms, none of them holding the brilliance and alluring aura of this one, single man. His frame was lean and strong, covered from head to toe in black. Had he taken this form way back when, she was sure her little crush on Remington would never have gotten anywhere _near_ the level it did. _'He's beautiful.'_ An angel's beauty with the Devil's own grace. A creature of sin.

Whilst he stared to the side, she had the chance to study him before he took note of her; and then her eyes widened further, if that was possible. Was _he_ the team she'd been assigned to? _'Oh Lord—even_ you_ can't be this cruel.'_ But it was clear he was searching for someone. _'He's been working with the Order in __Europe__ after all,' _she concluded, wondering how one such as he would stay with the organization after so long.

Had they known? Had Father Remington sent her to Germany _knowing_ she'd cross paths with _him_ again? Snapping out of her daze, she looked away, catching sight of the Hexen der Juwel beside him. _'What!__ Her too?'_ She suddenly regretted wishing for the redhead's presence, vaguely wondering if she'd jinxed herself. Lord, did she feel faint. _'This is too much.'_ She took off her cap, putting her head down on the table within a cocoon of her arms; her head was spinning. The hard pounding of her frantic heart threatened to overwhelm her. _'Stay calm and collected—you didn't come all this way for nothing.'_ Her mantra wasn't working.

"Excuse me, miss?"

She felt like screaming; how had he gotten so close without her sensing it? As if frozen in time, she ceased to move—to breathe.

"Ma'am; I'm sorry to disturb you, but are you from the Order of Magdalene?" His voice was low and smooth—young and polite. "You see, we were told to look for someone with a hat like yours, so. . ." His voice trailed off uncertainly. At that moment, she wanted to burn the blasted cap as if it had caused the whole thing. _'I hate surprises,'_ she thought vindictively, vowing to murder whatever power had thrown her into this situation. After calming herself down, she sat up, looking into the eyes of the one that had captured her heart so long ago. _'Lord, grant strength upon your children, for they are weak.'_

"An Exorcist from the Magdalan Order—that'd be me." Her smile could outshine the sun. "I'm Rosette Christopher—Nice to meetcha."


	5. 004: Lament

**004: Lament**

Satella was rambling off in angry, unbelieving German.

The Witch's outburst did not go unnoticed by the public—but to him, there was only her. Large eyes, now more green than blue, sparkled and glistened. Both so innocent, and yet so haunted. Her soft blonde hair had grown, her smile still wide and arrogant. God, how he had missed this face; this beautiful, jubilant face. He didn't know whether to cry or laugh—grip her up in a fierce embrace and never let go. Mold her body to his own; all curves and fragrant hollows—that's what she promised.

He must have seemed like a handicap of some sort, just staring at her, but he couldn't help it. An overwhelming flood of emotion clogged his throat, blocking any and every attempt at speech his befuddled mind tried to make. Was this a dream? An illusion? Had the New York Branch known about this? His heart was a foggy, barren place; empty but for the tsunami of anguish and pure feeling he tried so desperately to hold back. Behind him, Satella was still ranting and raving, but he could barely hear her . . . his angel had returned to him, though, by the look in her wide green eyes, she did not remember him. His voice was a broken, desperate whisper. Too scared to hope. ". . . Ro-Rosette . . .?" It was all that would pass by the lump in his esophagus.

"Yep—and where I'm from, a person's supposed to give their name right back. It's only polite, ya know." She raised an eyebrow, a hand placed securely on her hip.

He felt like a child again. "R-right, excuse my m-manners." He was a jittery, stuttering pile of nerves. "I . . . I am Chrno, Miss Christopher. This," he said, motioning to Satella, "is my partner, Satella Harvenheit." Satella glared. More than likely, she was just unnerved—he'd known Satella long enough to know that she hid a lot of her emotions beneath masks of arrogance and anger; if one dared to chance a closer look, you could see the sheen of moisture developing within her eyes.

His gaze inevitably fell back to the petite nun before him, who stared back at him with a far-off look—ignoring the Jewel Witch just as he, who could only think of her, did. "Chrno. . ." she murmured and there was something there—a lonesome, longing, unnamable something—that made his heart flutter just a tiny bit. Did she remember—was she only teasing him? Was there some part of her that remembered him or even—should he hope for such a dangerous thing?—loved him still? Had she ever? Was the bond they had so fickle that it had disintegrated over the years, becoming nothing but memories?

Had her soul truly forgotten him?

He could not help but think about Steiner; the butler's soul had followed its mistress and remembered, for God's sake . . . but his love for her—her memories of him—had not survived the decades? All of these long, long years he'd thought he'd never find another soul to care for; another person to love, for he could only ever think of his lovely, fiery contractor—but when he'd met the others—again—a horrible, horrible hope had blossomed. Would she come back to him? Would she . . .?

And now he knew.

But . . . her voice. The unsteady rise and fall of her chest, the slight flush to her cheeks—he knew this Rosette. She was flustered and there could be no other explanation . . . for the love of God . . . it had to be her.

"Hmm—I never met anyone named Chrno before. That's a new one . . . so, Chrno, where we headed? I'm assuming you have more Intel than I do, seeing as you're stationed here and all, right? Can I see it? And . . ." she peeked over at Satella, who had calmed down somewhat due to Steiner's tea (which he had, thankfully, offered), but was still muttering under her breath. "Do you have a car?"

There was a heavy thud resounding in the pit of his stomach—he suspected his heart had fallen there. "Yes."

"Great!" Her smile was huge. "I wanna drive!"

"No! I absolutely forbid it—I will not be stuck in a vehicle where you're the driver!"

Miss Christopher glared openly at the redhead. "What?! What do you mean by that?! I'll have you know I'm a wonderful driver!" Her face was crunched up in that odd expression she got when riled up—nostalgia hit him like a ton of bricks; they argued like they'd known each other for ages. . .

"Like hell you are!"

"Oh yeah?!"

"Yeah!"

"I'll show you!" and she rolled up her sleeves, charging at the German Witch.

In replica of a scene he must have replayed a million times in his mind, he caught the indignant teen by the shoulders before she could try and decapitate Satella, who, in turn, was held at bay by a smiling Steiner. Both women were incredibly difficult to control, equally red-faced and spitting venom at each other a thousand miles a minute. People stared openly at the two, especially when Satella's skirt flew up during her vain attempt at kicking off Rosette's head; Chrno blushed and tried to wipe the image from his memory. 'These two will be the death of me,' he thought in exasperation, too busy to truly understand those words—the irony . . . and remember how many times he'd uttered them before.

Because, once upon a time, he'd been the death of his greatest love.

-CHRNO CRUSADE-

In the end, it was Steiner who drove.

Sitting in the back of a brand new, tricked-out Escalade (it had been Chrno, she'd later learn, that had hooked it up—Satella, apparently, knew next to nothing about them), Rosette felt more and more inadequate by the second; her attire seemed out of place in this glistening cashroll-on-wheels, and it only served to make her angrier. 'Damn Satella—I can drive! What does she know, anyway?!' Inside, however, it was a farce; she wasn't angry at all.

I remember you. I love you. I miss you. How could three words hold so much power over her?

Rosette Christopher didn't act this way. She never acted this way. She didn't feel this way! She was brash and loud and determined and arrogant—she was not . . .

Not. . .

It was so unfair! Why had Magdalena been reincarnated? After all of this time, why now? Was God so cruel? The look on his face when he'd seen her made her want to jump into his arms and cry and smile and laugh and just be with him—to hell with Mary Magdalene and her history with Chrno. It was selfish and wrong but . . . dammit, it wasn't fair! 'Does he even care for me anymore?' Why was she putting up this ridiculous act? Her own brother didn't know . . . and why? Why was she hurting herself so much for him? Why was she denying herself the joy and liberation of just saying it; "Hey guys—I remember you! Remember that time you fell and your shirt flew up? That was funny!" And they'd smile and reminisce and say how happy . . .

How happy . . . oh dammit, this was so unfair. She hurt and cried and screamed inside, and there he sat, staring . . . wistfully . . . out of the car window. Discreetly, she glanced next to her, where he sat, and saw that his fists were clenched slightly in his lap, his face overshadowed by the darkness the tinted windows supplied. 'What's wrong?' she wanted to ask—would have asked—but did not. She was supposed to be a complete stranger—only here to lend a helping hand. 'I hate this—I hate this!!'

Rosette knew she couldn't hate Mary Magdalene—or, rather, Magdalena. She'd been a Saint—a heaven-sent. An angel that had given her life to protect this world and . . . Chrno. The one Magdalena loved; the one she loved still. Instinctively, she knew Magdalena to be kind, gentle, and peaceful; a creature of caring and infinite smiles. She couldn't find it in her to truly hate this woman, whom she saw for all of two seconds in a cathedral a few years back—a good deal longer in Chrno's dreams—but seemed to know like the back of her hand.

And, thusly, she would not steal from her. 'I can't believe this—I'm so hung up over a guy. This . . . isn't like me at all.' She'd been hung up on him forever, but she'd hit an all-time low. Sulking? Rosette Christopher did not sulk. Well, now she did, but it was so out of character for her. This whole . . . thing . . . was out of character for her. She didn't like it one bit.

"I don't want to be here."

"But miss, you've only just arrived—surely you can't judge Germany just yet."

To her horror, she realized she'd spoken aloud; Steiner smiled at her through the rearview mirror. "Oh, er. . ." How could she explain that it wasn't Germany she disliked—it was the situation. She was not the type of person to keep everything inside; if she was happy, she'd smile, if she was sad, she'd beat the person nearest to her. She hated hiding and keeping everything to herself—having to stay quiet when all she wanted to do was tell him everything that lay in her heart . . . especially since it had taken her death to finally—finally—realize that it was Chrno she wanted.

That it was Chrno she'd willingly die for time and time again; it was Chrno she'd give the world to if he asked. If he smiled, her world would instantly brighten . . . if he cried, she'd sob right along with him, holding him and comforting him in every way possible. If he was hurt, she'd shoot Sister Kate if she'd have to. It did not matter to her—for him, anything.

But here she was, sitting less than a foot away from him, unable to even look at him. 'I can't even ask what's wrong—I can't even tell him what's wrong. I can't . . . do anything.' And it was so . . . frustrating. It made her so . . . she hadn't answered Steiner, she realized, but found she couldn't. He didn't press, however, which was good—she didn't know how she would answer in any instance. How would she? Opening her mouth was dangerous; with everything swirling around like a typhoon of emotion within her, something was liable to spill out. Everything was liable to spill out.

And she was angry.

Granted, it wasn't exactly inexplicable but . . . that brief, startling moment of rage—blinding, undiluted, wrathful anger—scared her enough to break her out of the bubble of despair she seemed to have fallen in. Looking down at her hands, she saw them trembling.

"Are . . . you okay, Rosette?"

She looked up at him as if she'd forgotten he was there—his face was infinitely sad, but there was something else there . . . concern? Weariness? Instantly, she smiled at him, even though her heart palpitated dangerously inside. "Yep—just bad nerves. I've had them since I was little." Which . . . wasn't exactly a lie; she did have bad nerves, but she'd learned to control them long, long ago. How else was she to steady a gun? No, the trembling was . . . she didn't know what it was, but it had nothing to do with her nerves—she was driving herself insane with this whole situation.

This situation? She kept calling it that, but—no. It wasn't a "situation"; it was injustice and despair. Her mourning for what she could have done with the life she'd been given again—the memories . . . oh, the endless possibilities—but didn't. She should have told Joshua the second she'd regained the consciousness of the previous Rosette; maybe she wouldn't be here. . .

No, that wasn't right. Joshua loved Chrno as well—just on a different level. Before Aion had ever entered their lives—before the long, hard search for her brother had begun—Joshua had latched onto Chrno like the big brother he never had. Having a mother/sister was one thing . . . but sometimes one needed to talk with someone they trusted of their own gender, and Chrno had always been kind and gentle with the Christopher siblings. He was a demon with extraordinary power and . . . Joshua, an Apostle, had been unknowingly, undeniably drawn in by that. Chrno was so "cool, and awesome, and great" to Joshua; he'd been his greatest friend.

He would have scourged the ends of the Earth just to find him again.

'_. . . What the—?'_ Brought out of her absent-minded meandering, she realized that the car didn't seem to have any specific destination. This was possibly the longest car ride ever! "Hey—where we headed, anyway?" she asked no one in particular, noting that Chrno still shot her small glances; she said nothing about it, and pretended she did not see them.

Steiner, of course, answered. "Harvenheit Manor. I believe Miss Florette is expecting us there. She . . ." Steiner shot Rosette a glance through the rearview mirror that she did not miss. "She was looking forward to seeing you." Again, an eerie quiet settled within the car; Florette, Satella's sister, had been "stolen"—kidnapped—by Aion, and brainwashed into becoming Joshua's caretaker and servant. She'd gone by the name of Fiore then, and in the end . . . Rosette sighed to herself; did Aion have to destroy everything he came across? He had thought himself a god—manipulating people like marionettes in his sick little plays.

She still couldn't forgive him. For what he did to Joshua, to her, to Satella, to the Order, to Magdalena, to . . . Chrno . . . he was a monster. A well-polished, mild-mannered monster. He was a devil in every sense of the word; conniving, selfish, manipulating bastard. Never mind that Chrno had been worse than him at some point (a hundred—or was it a thousand?—demons dead at his hands? Chrno had been a monster himself, though, Rosette . . . could not hate him, even if she wanted to); Chrno atoned for his sins and, in a way, atoned still—Aion had no such goodness.

"Florette. . ."

"Yes—Miss Florette is Miss Satella's older sister."

Again, she'd spoken aloud. What the hell was wrong with her? Thank goodness Steiner had taken it as a question, but she had to control herself better. 'No time for regrets, Rosette; work needs to be done, and there's a little girl out there that needs help.' The mantra helped a little; her resolve hardened and her shoulders—which had slumped considerably—straightened. 'I will not let her down.'

"Ah—here we are!" Steiner made short work of parking in the very large garage (Rosette's eyes bulged; her love of guns and cars had never, ever faded) filled with dozens of different automobiles; he opened the door for Satella and made to move onto Rosette's . . . but the teenager had not known that, as a lady, she was supposed to wait for the door to be opened for her (Chrno had gotten out without any assistance), so she was already waiting for them by the time Steiner was done helping his Mistress. He, however, drew the line at her getting her own luggage (a dufflebag and a single suitcase? Hardly luggage, in Satella's own words); they would be brought up later. 'Bah—I've never been one for that rich, spoiled crap anyhow . . . damned, privileged brat—she hasn't changed a bit.'

Vaguely, she wondered if the Witch still hit on Chrno, even though he wasn't in his little-boy form anymore . . . who knew? True, Satella had a thing for younger boys, but. . . Chrno had been a sight for sore eyes.

Satella had better back off.

Her stride faltered for a moment as she followed Steiner and Satella; there it was again. That inexplicable anger. 'I'm so stressed out—I need a break, I think.' If she kept thinking so much, her brain would explode. In her silent contemplation, she didn't notice Chrno's searching gaze, and she followed the others to wherever it was they were leading her.

-CHRNO CRUSADE-

His eyes wouldn't leave her alone.

With every step she took, her golden mane would . . . bounce . . . and move around her face, the light catching on it and making it shimmer. Even before, with her shorter hair, she'd been beautiful—but her beauty had always been hidden behind her rough demeanor and gunfire; Chrno had been one of the few to really know her . . . and, thus, knew how her eyes would sparkle magnificently under festival lights, or how her frame felt whilst they danced. He knew the uninhibited melody of her laugh, and the sweet, sweet sunshine that was her smile.

And he knew the bitter taste of her tears—the coppery cream of her blood. Her cries were one of the rare things that could wound his heart so terribly—her sorrow a sour aftertaste on his tongue.

He had missed her _so much_.

He loved the way she spoke his name; the way she looked so calm and peaceful when she thought no one watched her. The way she cried into his chest when they were alone—when the weight of the world had taken its toll on her. The way her hand was always so much smaller than his; gentle, despite the callousness caused by the firearms and daily chores. He loved her. The way her habit had—and still did—brought out the lovely color in her eyes . . . the way her voice took on such a caring, gentle tone when they were alone.

". . . room is in the West Wing. Madam Satella is residing in the North Wing, and Mister Chrno will be in the East, should you ever find yourself looking for them; call a maid—or myself—should you need any assistance . . ." He half-listened to Steiner inform Rosette of her living conditions and where everything would be found; he knew it was fruitless, however. By week's end, Rosette would know this mansion like the back of her hand, and would have destroyed at least three pieces of furniture in each Wing and floor.

"Alrighty," chirped the flaxen-haired Sister. Most likely in response to whatever Steiner had told her.

He found himself speaking before he realized what was happening. "I'll help you carry your bags." He heard himself distantly and wanted to scoff at how childish he sounded. Like a schoolboy.

Rosette smiled. He wanted the moment to freeze so that he could paint and frame it for all of eternity. "Thanks, but I only have two bags and Steiner would kill me if I let anyone other than their staff lift a thing. He just reamed me out for not letting him open my door!" She rolled her eyes. "You rich people are so _lazy_. Back in New York, I'd get laughed at if I told Sister Kate I needed someone to carry my bags."

_Sister Kate?_ He knew Remington was still around--Satella had corresponded with him a few times during a particularly harsh mission last year--but no one told him Sister Kate was there. Again. He wondered if the ol' bat remembered him. Then he wondered if anyone _else_ he knew was there. _'It's deja vu.' _Like a record on repeat. It baffled him worse than any mystery he'd ever encountered. _'Mary, Satella, Steiner . . . Rosette. Who else?'_ He half-expected Aion to show up and start wreaking havoc again--although that would _not_ be a welcomed face. Not after the bloodshed his presence warranted before.

Belatedly, he realized he'd been staring at the petite blonde without uttering a word. What a fool he must look like. "I--er . . . um." Relax. Breathe. Retry. "I'll walk you to your r--"

"Chrno! Can I see you in the living room for a moment?" Satella called from whereabouts unknown. He wanted to curse and thank her at the same time. Rosette, who had no idea what she meant to him, would probably think he was some 'creepy weirdo' for being so forward with her. While he relished the thought of being around her for as long as possible, he knew that was such an impossibility right now.

"Girlfriend's callin' ya." Rosette laughed, but it didn't sound real. "I'm gonna head up for a shower. I guess . . . let me know when we're heading out? See ya later." A small wave and she was gone.

"Yeah . . . later." Forcing his lead limbs to operate, he managed to stumble out into the house--_mansion_ was the right word for it--and navigated the proverbial beaten path towards Satella's lavishly furnished parlor.

_Time starts to pass . . . before you know it, you're frozen._

Upstairs, away from those beautiful red eyes and the maniacal urge to rush into his embrace, the young Exorcist let the warm water mask the tears that fell of their own violation. This, she swore, would be her final indulgence in melancholy. After this, she would force her violet-haired demon out of her mind.

No more tears. No more wishes that things could be different.

Rosette Christopher was stronger than this. She'd thwarted countless demons, defeated even more. It would take a terrible force to knock her down; she'd even survived the murky obstacle of _death_. She'd fought so _hard_ in the past to get her brother back. For her family. God had blessed her with a second chance, and a family she could come home to and smile and laugh and cry with everyday. She was selfish for wanting more--for wanting a man she could not have.

He had moved on. So could she.

**END**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Wow. Four whole years. Food for thought: this chapter is four years old. I added the last two pages in it because it was, of course, incomplete. Can you tell the slight style change? How sad is it that, in four years, I have barely changed? Hmm...

Credit to _Leona Lewis_ for the single line from "Bleeding Love" I threw in there. Just for shits and giggles. It occurred to me that I would love to see an AMV of Chrno Crusade dubbed over with that song. I think a really well-thought out one would be absolutely marvelous for the RosettexChrno shipper to enjoy. Right now I'm working on an Elfen Lied AMV for T.a.t.u.'s "Show me Love", but maybe I'll get to that little muse once I'm done.

Well, onto updating something else. Rest assured, I will not neglect my stories any longer as I have a laptop now (my old computer crashed, I worked my ass off and then lost my job, then went through a drug-thing... but who really cares, right? lol) but it's gonna take some time, as I have to reread them and get into the frame of mind I had when I made them. Thank Chocolate Chip Cookies for flashdrives!


	6. 005: Freefall

"Oh, what is that silly girl _doing?_"

"You'll have to forgive her; she never thinks of _asking questions_. It was always _shoot first, ask later_." A deep, throaty chuckle. "It's charming."

A small huff. "She's very frustrating. We'll never be able to proceed at this rate."

The taller--male, by the silhouette formed beneath the archway drunken with moonlight--of the two laughed again, ruffling the woman's long, long hair. "You promised you wouldn't use any of your Gifts; it wouldn't be natural that way. To violate a law of N--"

"I know," she interrupted, but not unkindly. "We've already done too much. I couldn't force my hand if I tried." She sighed, turning towards her companion. "I apologize. None of this is your fault. I feel like I've done nothing but relinquish my frustrations upon you . . . I just feel uneasy; we're so far from where we should be, and I'm unused to this kind of situation. I feel blind. It's similar to an actor's stage freight, I think."

He hugged her gently. "I'm not quite sure that analogy fits, but I understand." He dodged her playful swat. "Come on; I'll make you some hot chocolate to get your mind off of them. We still have some time--which, thankfully, is on our side this time around. Don't let yourself fret over the minor details."

The woman nodded. "Perhaps you are right. My anxiety is clouding my judgment." She turned with him as he stepped inside. "Some hot chocolate would be lovely. Thank you, Father Remington."

The glint of teeth flashed in the moonlight. A smile. "A pleasure to be of service, my lady."

**005: Freefall**

When she spied Chrno hesitantly stepping into the room, she stopped her erratic pacing. "Did you see that coming?" she asked in a hushed voice. He had the feeling she was being rhetorical.

Not in a hundred years, would he have seen that coming. He shook his head, trying to dispel the residual shock left from seeing the one face--the only face he'd scour the Earth again and again just to catch another glimpse of--he'd thought he'd only ever see again in a memory. "Then again, seeing _you_ again was a real shock for me, too. Remember?"

Satella shook her head. "That's different. _I never died!_"

That much he knew; after facing the marionette that once embodied her sister, Satella had frozen both herself and Florette for what she'd believed to be their final act in this life. As fate would have it, Satella and Florette had floated ashore off the coast of Oregon and, after over seventy years of research, the Order had finally managed to find a way to de-thaw them.

Perhaps having Sheda as a part of the scientific team had been a big help. Chrno had never seen her since before his death in Pandemonium, but Satella assured him it had been she to help revive both Florette and herself.

"I did . . . but here I am," he countered. They'd long ago given up on figuring out his reappearance--one day, he remembered wishing for one more moment with Rosette before slaying his brother . . . and the next thing he knew, there'd been a blinding light. And a voice, familiar--though he couldn't place it. He awoke to the shimmering light of Mary Magdalene caressing his face.

_'Mary . . .' _he caught himself from smiling. She'd brought him peace.

"There's . . ." Satella inhaled a little, looking very unsure of herself. "Azmaria made a video. In case we ever . . ." she was choking up. He wasn't sure he could hear this without breaking down. "Her grandson gave it to me." Chrno wanted to interject--who had the songstress finally settled down with?--but refrained. "I didn't show you because. . . well. When this mission is over, I'll give you the video. I never imagined we'd ever see . . . this is unbelievable! I don't know how you're taking it so calmly."

The couch looked inviting; without a word, he took a seat, immediately covering his face with his hands. He wanted to cry, but withheld the urge. Scream? No, that wouldn't do. Hysterically, he felt a small chuckle bubble in his chest. "I feel like I'm going crazy," he finally admitted, dropping his hands for the more comfortable perch of his lap. "I wanted to pour my heart out the second I saw her face." The laugh escaped. "She would have called up the Order in New York and reported me as a looney." He felt Satella sit beside him, a soft hand gently placed upon his shoulder for comfort. This must have been equally as hard on her.

When she reached for his cheek, he didn't expect for there to be tears.

_"We'll always be together. So, wait for me!"_

Sure enough--as promised--her bags were sitting at the foot of her bed when she emerged from her deeply-cleansing bath. Towel securely wrapped around her frame, she padded over to them, her feet bare and damp on the soft carpets. "Should I put on my habit?" she wondered aloud.

Steiner told her they were waiting for word from the German headquarters on their next course of action. There would be no field work today--reviewing Satella's and Chrno's file on the case thus far would be the extent of operations executed. Boring. _'At least I'll get a break,'_ she tried reasoning with herself, but it didn't work. The instinct to run head-first into any- and everything was still very much rampant.

Some things never change.

Simple attire, then. She didn't have anything fancy--poverty and Sisterhood went hand-in-hand--but she'd brought along a modest array of clothing for suiting most of her needs. From the depths of her duffle she pulled out a long, crinkle cotton skirt that would swish and sway prettily around her ankles; the pastel pink reminded her of warm, spring flowers. It made her smile.

Laying the clothes on her bed, she unfastened the towel and rubbed the water from her hair, wandering over to the vanity in the corner. Again, she rolled her eyes at Satella's luxury.

Rewrapping herself, Rosette sat on the small chair in front of the bureau and picked up a bottle with the writing _Eau de Toilette_. "Ew de Toilet?" she read aloud. That didn't make any sense. She wanted to see what was in it--looked like perfume--but didn't want to smell like a _toilet_ for the rest of the day, so she placed it back in its spot and picked up another, smaller bottle. "Face cream?" She spun the cap off and dipped her finger in the white, gooey substance. It _smelled_ okay, but what did it do? Reading the label, she discovered it was in _French_, too. _'Isn't Satella German?'_ That didn't make any sense either.

Bottle still in hand, she curiously peeked into one of the drawers. Steiner had mentioned that this was one of Satella's favorite rooms because of the view--that only made Rosette's curiosity stronger.

A few articles--lingerie, actually--of silk and satin lined the first drawer. Rosette snickered, ready to shut it when her fingers found something hard and plastic. _'What's that?'_ Couldn't be a gun--she knew what _those_ felt like--because Satella didn't _use_ guns. Placing the facial cream on the countertop, she reached for this mysterious item and pulled it out.

And exploded with laughter.

She had to cover her mouth. Her cackle would echo, she knew, but she never expected _that_. It wasn't odd to think of--Satella _was _a very healthy young woman with a very healthy appetite--but it still surprised her. A few more chuckles and she finally shut the drawer with its contents where she'd found him, resuming her contemplation of the facial cream.

_Rosette._

She jumped, dropping the bottle. Hastily, she moved to retrieve it before it could spill; the last thing she needed was to pay to get the carpets shampooed. Unfortunately, she sneezed as she tried to reseal the bottle and the messy goop splattered all over her face. "Oh, _yuck!_"

Thankfully, she'd kept the towel. She wiped at her eyes primarily, looking in the large mirror to make sure she'd gotten most of it off.

And froze.

Her reflection pulsed. A slight shimmer surrounded a face that, although could be mistaken for hers at first sight, was _definitely not her own_. With a shaky hand she tentatively reached for the cool surface of the looking glass, awed. _"What . . .?" _The hair was longer, thinner. The face was older, lined with worry and the inevitable wear-and-tear of burden. _She knew this face,_ but the memory escaped her.

_Do not let your own misinterpretations prevent you from happiness. _

Her eyes widened, but the reflection's did not. The eyes in the mirror were most definitely _green; _a deep, swirling green found in moss or Spring's fresh-cut grass, not hers. And they sparkled at her. _'Who is this? What's happening?'_

A quick rapping at the door startled her. "Miss Christopher? Madam Satella requests your presence in the dining room." It was Steiner.

It took a moment to regain herself. "S-sure. Just . . . give me a few minutes!" She hurriedly looked to the mirror again; her pale, shaken countenance was all that stared back. The fluttery palpitation of her heartbeat made the subsequent sigh of relief was shuddery and ragged.

"Very well." A pause. She didn't hear him walk away. "Is everything all right, Miss?"

Rosette covered her face, not knowing how to feel. How to think. "Y-yeah. I'm fine. I'll be down in a bit, I promise."

When his footsteps faded, she crumbled by the bureau, fearful of looking in the mirror again. Her heart thrummed like the wing of a hummingbird, rattling her nerves something ragged. Even her breathing was strangled, as if she'd ran a marathon. _'God, help me.' _She'd never been so spooked before. The fear and surprise drove away any logic she may have sustained otherwise--she couldn't even remember what the voice in her head had uttered. _'Am I going insane?'_ She hoped not: there was a little girl out there that needed help. She, Rosette Christopher, could not leave a child in need.

But first, there was dinner to attend to.

So she collected herself and stood, inhaling deeply. Careful to avoid looking in the direction of the vanity, she dressed as quickly as she could, glad for her own foresight in selecting the clothing beforehand. She did nothing with her hair, too rattled to care about it--besides, Chrno had _clearly_ seen her in worse before. Like that time Rizelle practically hacked off her entire habit and he'd _caught_ her as she fell off of the train. _That'd_ been embarrassing; not only had Satella saved her (for which the Hexen der Juwel never gave her a moment's respite) on the Jewel-summoned Laden's back, but Chrno had practically seen her in scraps--

She paused, squeezing her eyes shut. As if she could dislodge the thoughts so easily, she shook her head violently back and forth, hair flying wildly. Head up, shoulders back. She marched like a soldier to what she was sure to be one of the most awkward experiences she would ever have in her (second?) life.

_March,_ _1931. She looked at the calendar again. Seven years, she'd been waiting. Her body shook with the force of a mere cough, distracting her for a bit. Out of habit, she wiped at the edges of her mouth, searching and sighing in relief when the napkin did not come back stained with blood._

_"You're looking well, Rosette," came a voice she instantly recognized._

_"Liar," she joked, turning with a smile. "How are you, Father?"_

_Remington smiled in return, looking very much as he had the day he'd come to the Seventh Bell Orphanage oh-so-long ago. If only she'd known then what she knew now . . . suffice to say, things would have been different. "I'm fine." He took off his hat in respect. "Would you like to join me in the church? I'm leaving here soon, and I'd like to speak with you before I go."_

_She nodded. "I'll be there in a moment."_

_His hand was already reaching for the knob. He'd seen the image she stood before and didn't want to interrupt a private moment, for even he had not the strength to tell her the truth. "Take your time." The door closed quietly behind him, but Rosette had already focused her attention on her bureau. . ._

_More specifically, a framed portrait that lay atop it. Her hands shook as she retrieved it. A tear, unbidden, splashed against the glass pane that protected it from harm. "I will wait until the End of Days if I must." She placed the portrait back in its spot and sighed, rubbing her eyes. Remington wanted to speak with her--she shouldn't keep him waiting. She almost laughed. '_I'm always waiting nowadays.'_ But it had been her own choice._

_No, her choice would have been to follow Chrno. To fight by his side till the very end._

Her hand, which had frozen on the banister, gripped the hard wood beneath its palm to keep her from falling. She panted, pausing for a moment. _'A memory.' _March of 1931. . . she tried to place it. What had she been doing then? What had happened? Why--and then it hit her like a ton of bricks. _'The day I died.'_ The morning before her final heart attack in the church, mere minutes after she'd said her final goodbyes to the good Father.

_'I waited till the end for you.' _She grit her teeth and ignored the surge of emotion that prickled at the edges of her eyes. Though odd, she could understand where the nostalgia had come from; being around these two for however long it took them to find the possessed little girl was _not_ going to be easy. Rosette wasn't sure how she would survive it, if at all.

When she finally joined them, they'd already been seated and were starting to eat--well, Satella ate as demurely as possible whilst Chrno simply pushed the food around his plate.

"Thanks for the meal, guys," she offered, trying to sound normal.

She failed. "I have an excellent Chef who came highly recommended from Paris," commented Satella. Must she always boast? "You must try the _filet mignon_; it is _delicious_."

Oh, Rosette more than just _tried_ it; her plate was spotless within a few moments and she was asking for seconds. Satella informed her that no, you did _not_ get seconds of such an specialty--the beauty in rare and exquisite dishes were that they were _rare_--and that she'd have to wait for dessert. Rosette huffed. It was no wonder why rich people were so rich; they were all stingy, money-grubbing cheapskates. _'That, and the fact that she's not Christian, Catholic . . . does she belong to _any_ sect of religion?' _She didn't remember Satella ever mentioning a religion, but if the redhead were devoted to any deity, that deity obviously did not include poverty in their scriptures.

Wordlessly, Chrno slid his plate towards the still-ravenous blonde, standing and effectively ending their argument. "If I may be excused?" He didn't wait for an answer before leaving the two women in silence, stiff with his eyes downcast.

Rosette followed him with her eyes, no longer hungry.

The rest of dinner passed in silence, Rosette declining the offer of dessert. When time came to leave the dinner table, she felt stuck. _'Should I just go to my room?' _But she didn't want to leave things like this. She didn't want to just go back to her room to repeat the whole awkward scenario all over again tomorrow.

But what could she do? She couldn't just . . . _tell _ them everything. No one knew and she liked it that way. _A fresh start_. And yet, nothing was turning out that way. Her life was stuck.

"Thanks for dinner," was Rosette's quiet voice. The lump in her throat wouldn't go away.

"_Bitte schun,"_ was the reply she received, followed by an uneasy "Is everything all right?" when Satella realized Rosette had made no move to stand.

Rosette shook her head. "I miss him." She didn't realize what she'd said until she heard the words. Her eyes widened, matching Satella's own surprise as she clamped a hand over her own mouth to keep anything else from spilling out. _'I'm not used to keeping so many secrets. I hate it!'_ "I-I mean . . ." How would she get out of this one? To her horror, tears were dancing in her vision. "My-my . . . my little brother. I miss. . ." She couldn't finish. Lies were useless, she'd always believed them fickle and troublesome. _'I thought I wouldn't cry anymore. I thought I was stronger than this!' _"Oh, Satella!"

The redhead couldn't tear her eyes away. "R-Rosette . . .?"

The nun nodded vigorously, trying to wipe her eyes. "It's been a long time." She managed to giggle a little. Hysteria? It wouldn't be the first time. Perhaps it was the relief of telling someone--anyone--the truth. "When I saw you guys again, it was like _deja_ _vu_. I never thought I'd say this to _you_, but . . . I missed you, too."

Rosette could say no more as Satella had enveloped her in a tight, unyielding embrace. She cried and cried until she thought her tear ducts would dry up forever. "Please don't tell Chrno," she whispered.

At this, Satella drew back, astonished. "What? Are you insane?" There was anger in her voice. "Do you know how much he's suffered? Do you realize just how hard it's been on him?" The redhead crossed her arms. "There hasn't been a day that goes by without him thinking about you! How can you even _think_ of denying him the one thing that he's wanted for so long?"

Baffled, Rosette retorted with the same vigor. "I'm not going to go after someone who's already taken! Telling him would only make things worse."

Satella rose an eyebrow. "Please explain."

"I saw him with Mary Magdalene," Rosette growled, annoyed. "In Italy. I was on an assignment and while I was there, I saw them together. _Together_." She looked away. "Don't make me seem like an asshole," she spat. "I started looking for him the second I regained my memories a few years ago. I never thought I'd find him with someone else." A bittersweet smile. "But I _did_ find him."

"That . . . doesn't make any sense. Are you saying that the _Holy Maiden_ Magdalena is _alive_?"

"If you don't believe me, ask Chrno," she dared. "But you have to promise me not to tell him _anything_."

Satella glared. "Or what?"

Rosette scowled. "Or else I tell Chrno about the vibrator I found in your budoir."

She knew that little trump card would come in handy. Satella blanched and nodded, walking away hastily. To reclaim her property, maybe? Who knew, but at least she wouldn't tell Chrno anything she shouldn't.

With a yawn, Rosette stretched. Oh, _now_ she felt tired. Perhaps the waterworks had drained her completely. She slid as silently as she could from the chair, dragging her feet up the steps and pulling herself along with the banister. _'I hope I get to sleep in a little,'_ she thought absently, reaching the very top of the ornate spiral staircase.

The breath of a whisper kissed her cheek. She looked up with wide eyes and gasped.

_Tell him_.

Unthinking, she took a step backwards and tumbled ingloriously down each flight of stairs, screaming with each bump and soon-to-be-bruise. She reached out with an arm to grab a hold of something solid and failed, banging her wrist painfully.

She lay quiet and unmoving on the very last flight.

**END**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I don't know if any of you have read the entire manga (heart-wrenching. I actually cried). If you have, you should understand (at least, in part) where I'm getting my ideas from. This isn't . . . really an AU. It's more like a possibly, considering the events that unfolded, especially in the last chapter (and yes, Florette did seperate ways with Satella, but who would really leave their sibling for so long?). The answers are coming, trust me.


End file.
